


but only so an hour

by pied_pollo



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drunk Malcolm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e04 Designer Complicity, Episode: s01e13 Wait and Hope, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hangover, Implied Overdose, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by The Devil Wears Prada, Laced Tea, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, Post-Arrest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sort Of, Suicide Attempt, The Slap, Weddings, and so is jessica, are those canapes?, honestly prodigal son could be considered a family drama, ish, it describes jessica perfectly, malcolm is a mess that works, mild sexual reference once, oh look gabrielle's here too, only a little though, technically not but i mean, the third and final installment of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Everyone loves a scandal until they find themselves in the center of one.
Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824919
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	but only so an hour

Everyone loves a scandal until they find themselves in the center of one.

Jessica took her drama in long sips. She really wanted to _taste_ it, but only in spurts--not too much, or it’s overbearing. Swallow, wait for it to sit, let it age like fine wine, then take another swig. Eventually, the bottle is gone, and you’ll find that it’s either warm and fragrant or bitter and outdated.

Serial killers are most definitely brands that do not belong in her wine cellar. But unfortunately for Jessica, Martin spent more time downstairs than she did.

The house felt strangely empty when the sirens, the reporters, the police officers all departed. Jessica set Ainsley on the ground and watched as her daughter quickly shuffled to Malcolm, looking for answers. She hoped, more than anything, that her children would be spared, but in her heart, she knew it was too late. This memory would be sealed in both their minds for the rest of their lives.

Her fears were confirmed when she saw Malcolm nudge Ainsley away from the room without looking away from the door. Jessica walked over and touched his shoulder gently.

“Malcolm, dear,” she said softly, “are you alright?”

Without saying a word, Malcolm turned around and ran upstairs to his room.

Ainsley followed him.

Jessica went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.

It was the first of many that night.

* * *

Inviting Detective Arroyo into her house felt incredibly wrong. Sure, she and Gil were friends (and for a time, something more), but the irony of the situation kept her from ever doing anything.

Malcolm wasn’t talking. Ainsley spent a lot of her time alone or trailing Louisa. And Jessica didn’t know what she did. She felt absolutely helpless--a feeling that was quite new and not good at all.

She was on her third glass when the doorbell rang, but she dismissed it as the press. Someone knocked on the door; tentatively at first, but then the pounding grew more and more insistent. Jessica growled under her breath and stomped to the door, and whatever loser of a journalist that just made the mistake of barging in was really about to get a piece of her--

“Mrs. Whitly? Jessica?”

That wasn't the press.

“I have Malcolm with me? He said he got locked out.”

Jackie Arroyo was at the door, holding an umbrella over herself and Malcolm, though it was slightly pointless; both were soaked from the pouring rain outside.

Jessica gaped for a moment before her hospitality came back to her. She ushered Jackie inside, ordering her and Malcolm to stay on the doormat while Louisa fetched towels for the both of them.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Jackie apologized, as she dried herself off. “Malcolm stopped by our house. He was locked out, apparently.”

“Oh, I just came home,” Jessica lied, “usually I leave the door unlocked for the kids. I’ll have to give them a key.”

She felt terrible, but she wasn’t about to let this woman know that. One more thing she knows about drama: people talk. Good wine ought to be shared, but Jessica didn’t need more gossip going around. 

_Oh, look at that,_ they would say, _the Surgeon’s wife succumbed to alcoholism. Isn’t it terrible? Her poor kids get locked outside when she’s too drunk to know the time._ Pitiful. Cowardly. The only thing Jessica had left was her dignity, and she was not about to let this woman--no matter how much Gil approved of her--take that strength away.

But then Jackie said, “He’s so sweet. You’re so lucky to have a kid like him,” and Jessica relented a little bit.

“He doesn’t talk,” she admitted. The wine was making her tongue loose.

Jackie smiled softly. “Give him time. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”

“Thank you for taking him home.”

“Of course. Have a nice day, Mrs. Whitly.”

“Please, call me Jessica.”

Jackie nodded, smiled softly, and closed the door carefully behind her, plunging the house back in silence. Malcolm stood where he was, dripping on the carpet, sniffing pitifully and staring at the ground--miserable, but in one piece, which was good enough for now.

Jessica left him by the door and returned to the kitchen.

* * *

She found a therapist named Dr. Le Deux, who Gil agreed was a gift from God. Jessica finally had a name for Malcolm’s muteness, for his anxiety, the constant stress and danger he put himself in: C-PTSD. It’s simple and neat on a brochure, a prescription, despite the word “complex” being in the name. Jessica carried the brochure in her purse at all times, using it to justify Malcolm’s quirks. She kept it clean. Clinical. Black words on white paper.

Fear? Check.

Agitation? Check.

Insomnia? Check.

Detachment? Check.

All the symptoms were there, tied off with a cruel little bow, and when Gabrielle asked for Jessica to sit in with her, she answered all the questions robotically. _Yes, ma’am, he has nightmares. So unfortunate, that mistrust of his. What a smart boy, but he doesn’t participate in school._ She felt like a broken record, and Gabrielle must have noticed, because eventually the multiple choice questions ended and the short essay interrogation began.

“What does a normal day look like for Malcolm?”

Jessica hesitated. “Well,” she started, “he’s in boarding school. It’s a very good place--breakfast, back at the dorms around three PM. Goes upstairs to his books, phone calls, homework, dinner. It’s all very orderly.”

Gabrielle hummed thoughtfully. “I see.”

“...Is that good?”

“Order and routine can be very grounding for children experiencing severe trauma,” Gabrielle offered, “but eventually, he needs to get out of his shell. And you’ll need to help him do that. How old is Malcolm?”

“Thirteen.”

“Does he have any friends?”

“He has a friend named Vijay.”

“Anyone else?”

Jessica dodged the question. “Vijay seems like a fine young man--he got Malcolm speaking again.”

“That’s excellent progress,” Gabrielle agreed warmly. “But what about yourself? What role do you play in Malcolm’s life?”

“I’m his mother, of course.”

It was Gabrielle’s turn to hesitate. “Mrs. Whitly,” she said slowly, “Malcolm is holding on to a very large amount of guilt. He’s extraordinarily intelligent, but that also means he has a vast understanding of the world, and of himself. This opens the gateway to extreme anxiety and loneliness. Do you understand me?”

Jessica nodded.

“He’s touch-starved,” Gabrielle went on, “and while others may think he willingly isolates himself, what Malcolm really needs is connection and socialization. A hug, for example, or a stimulative game.”

“He doesn’t ask for hugs,” Jessica pointed out.

“Just because he doesn’t _ask_ for a hug doesn’t mean he doesn’t _want_ one.”

* * *

#7 on the list of C-PTSD symptoms: _Disinterest in activities that previously excited them._ It’s also #2 on the list of depression symptoms.

Malcolm told her he was dropping ballet a week after her conversation with Gabrielle. Jessica didn’t take it well.

“Why?” she asked. “Madame Bernadette told me you showed great promise. You really have a gift, Malcolm. Not everyone is an artist on the stage.”

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” he replied softly.

“What’s wrong with the class?”

Malcolm struggled to find the right words. “I’m just so... _tired,_ ” he admitted with a sigh. “It doesn’t feel right anymore. Like it used to be.”

Jessica studied him a moment: the dark circles under his eyes. His drooping shoulders. Hair unkempt. A scar on his face from where he’d cracked his chin on the desk in the night. Everything about him screamed _exhausted._ Not just with ballet, with life in general. Thirteen-year-olds shouldn’t look like this, Jessica decided.

Out loud, she said: “I’ll make you some tea, and then we can think about it.”

_We can think about it_. Togetherness; that was good. She could practically hear Gabrielle’s approving tone: _Let him know he’s not alone._

Malcolm sat limply on the couch, fiddling with a loose thread on his sweater. Jessica went to the counter and fiddled through the cupboards ( _engage with him; don’t let Louisa do all the work)_ and scanned the shelves. Earl Grey. English Breakfast. An assortment of medications underneath; Malcolm’s pharmaceutical cocktail right next to Jessica’s own liquid ones.

She spotted a small orange bottle in the corner: hydroxyzine. Malcolm stopped taking sedatives after he learned that they trapped him in his dreams--well, no, not _trapped,_ really, right? The hydroxyzine was a pretty hefty dose, sure, but while he was on it, Malcolm had slept for hours. He barely thrashed, barely showed signs of nightmares. 

All she had to do was crack a capsule open...was this the wrong thing to do?

In the end, Jessica chalked it up to tough love.

* * *

Togetherness didn’t last. Malcolm moved to Virginia to study at Quantico and Jessica didn’t make a move to contact him for two weeks. How could she? Here was her son, _barely_ thriving as an acceptable citizen of society. Malcolm stopped seeing his father, sure, but what good did that make if he was just going to face others like Martin every single day?

Apparently, a lot of good. Malcolm came back to NYC for a little bit and he looked...different. Healthy. Of course, there were signs of exhaustion and various scrapes from whatever he was up to in the FBI, but it was nothing a little concealer couldn’t fix. And the fact that he was home and away from the whole profiling thing made Jessica excited--perhaps he got some common sense and decided to relax, go to business school, accept a trust fund, or do something normal?

A call from Gil told her otherwise.

At first, Jessica was hesitant to let Malcolm accompany Jackie to doctor appointments and clinical trials, but eventually, she was able to stifle her--okay, _fine_ , she’ll admit it--jealousy, and let Malcolm trail the Arroyos more often. Part of it was for Malcolm's sake, but part of it was out of fear.

Opposites attract: Martin wanted Malcolm to be like him. And as for Jessica, there was a very small, deep-down part of her that knew she didn’t want Malcolm to turn out like her.

This fear only appeared once, early one morning, when Malcolm was twenty-four. Jackie had told Jessica over the phone that Malcolm was coming down with something and therefore stayed the night at her and Gil’s place, but the moment Malcolm set foot in the house, Jessica knew the truth. She herself had fallen victim to many a hangover, and unfortunately for Malcolm, he wasn’t good at hiding it.

“Did you get drunk?” she asked, as soon as he took off his coat.

“No,” Malcolm tried, “Jackie told you, I was--”

“Oh, don’t lie to me,” Jessica chided, “I can practically taste your hangover.”

“So much for that,” Malcolm muttered under his breath.

“ _Really_ , Malcolm,” Jessica went on, her voice taking on a lecturey tone, “you must learn to hide it better. Oh, and _please_ tell me you didn’t _waste_ your first time on a cheap brand. If you’re going to get drunk, be classy about it.” She raised her own glass of wine in a sort of toast.

Malcolm sighed. “I’m going to go throw up now,” he informed her, turning to the stairs. As he climbed up, Jessica could hear him muttering every few steps: 

"Fuck." Step. "I hate this." Step. "Goddamn everything." Step. "Ow. ow. ow." Step. 

The bathroom door slammed close and the rest of the morning was filled with the sound of painful retching.

Jessica silently cursed herself. Who was she, a mother who told her son how to hide a hangover rather than warn him about the dangers of alcohol and medication? Then again, it would certainly be hypocritical. She shook her head in defeat before downing the rest of her glass.

* * *

A few weeks later, Gil showed up on her doorstep, eyes red. He told her the news in a soft, raspy voice, and Jessica felt her heart ache for him. Terribly tragic, Jackie’s death, although they weren’t close. She was about to close the door when Gil spoke up.

“Could I speak to him?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” Jessica replied, letting him inside.

As it turned out, Malcolm didn’t need to be told anything, because suddenly he was there, staring at Jessica and Gil with wide, watery eyes. His hands trembled at his sides, then shook, and he gripped his pants tightly in a desperate attempt to settle the now-violent tremors possessing his clenched fists like earthquakes.

Gil walked slowly past Jessica and squeezed Malcolm tightly, burying his face in his shoulder, and Malcolm melted into the embrace ( _touch-starved,_ Jessica’s inner Gabrielle supplied helpfully), gripping Gil’s sleeves for dear life and trying in vain to push down the tears.

Jessica stayed where she was.

* * *

She got Malcolm a loft where he could stay while he spent time in New York, but when Jessica dropped by one night to check on him, she was surprised to find Malcolm had a rather unpleasant roommate.

“Malcolm,” she called, swatting a yellow bird away, “what is this _creature_ doing in my apartment building?”

Her son emerged from the kitchenette and cooed softly, holding out his hand for the bird to land onto, and Jessica did a double take at the sight of him.

Malcolm looked absolutely _dreadful_ , eyes dark and dull, shirt hanging loosely from his bony shoulders. There was crusted blood underneath his nose and a bruise on his jaw, his lips were dry and cracked, and it seemed he hadn’t showered in a while, either; Jessica could see the soft gleam of oil on his face.

“What on _earth_ have you been doing?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Malcolm replied flatly, which was the truth.

Jessica clicked her tongue disdainfully. “You really ought to take better care of yourself. Have you been eating?”

“Does sparkling water count?” Malcolm offered dryly.

Jessica groaned and put her face in her hands. “You really are a hopeless cause,” she sighed. “Well, that’s all. I just popped in to see you settle in--well, more-or-less.”

She turned to leave and walked briskly down the stairs, and Malcolm started to say something, but she closed the door in his face.

* * *

_You really are a hopeless cause._

She didn’t know the effect those words had on him.

She didn’t know that it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

She didn’t know what he did only an hour after she left.

She didn’t know what went wrong (he didn’t want her to).

She didn’t know how he got there, only that now he was there and it was bad.

She didn’t know why he called Gil instead of her.

She didn’t know why she told Gil to leave when she arrived at the hospital.

But she did anyway, and Gil was left with his questions, his tears, and a lot of not-knowing.

She sat down quietly at the edge of the bed, and Malcolm didn’t acknowledge her presence save for a weak exhale. A tear slipped down his face, and Jessica leaned over to brush it away, letting her thumb linger a moment on his cheek before retracting her arm.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she asked softly: “What happened?”

His voice was painfully quiet, painfully broken: “I don’t know.”

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t come home for eight years, and when he does, it’s for the _NYPD_ , of all things, and Jessica is quite understandably frustrated. More so when Ainsley tells her that Malcolm is consulting for the Surgeon Copycat investigation.

“Your father would _love_ this,” she growled venomously. “You, trying to solve his murders.”

They both know she’s right. But what can be done?

The Copycat killer, as it turned out, ended up being the _least_ of Malcolm’s problems since joining the NYPD.

Ainsley, ever the journalist, was Jessica’s confidant, and she provided a wealth of information: snakebites. Stabbings. Shootings. The list goes on. Jessica found him _dangling from his window_ , for God’s sake.

This all circulated back to Martin, so Jessica did what she had to do. It’s an obvious solution--remove the problem, everyone knows that.

So why the _hell_ was Malcolm angry at her for removing him from Martin’s visitor list?

“Why are you so _hellbent_ on keeping me from him?” he demanded.

Jessica scoffed. Was he being serious? “Look in the mirror,” she growled, “you are _falling apart_ with each visit.”

“I _need_ those visits,” Malcolm argued, “for my work.”

“He needs them more!”

A knowing look crossed Malcolm’s face. “You’re right,” he said slowly, “he wouldn’t give them up without a price. What was it?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“Because there’s something you don’t want me to know.”

Damn profilers. “You kept your visits from me, Malcolm,” she hissed, “at least I told you the _truth._ ”

“Did you know about the murders?” Malcolm blurted out. “Is that what you’re hiding? Why don’t you want me to see him--because you knew?”

Jessica was seething--how _dare_ he. How _dare_ he make such outlandish comments, her own son? Was no one on her side? Was he even grateful that his mother was doing the right thing and deleting the problem, straight from the source?

Her voice was low and dangerous, a polar opposite to Malcolm’s vibrating, escalating intensity: “I have endured... _vicious_ whispers. Baseless accusations. Coy winks from Barbara Walters. I expected it from _strangers_. Not my son. It took _everything_ I had to walk into that cell--”

“Oh, _spare_ me,” Malcolm accused, “you knew what he was doing!”

Before she knew what happened, Jessica drew back her hand and brought it hard against his cheek, and Malcolm jerked his head to the side with the force.

Silence. Malcolm slowly brought a shaky hand to his face, fingertips gingerly touching his cheek. Jessica retracted her hand and clenched it hard to her chest,mouth agape.

What did she just do?

“I told you about the girl in the box,” Malcolm said, and his voice was soft, too soft, and too familiar for Jessica’s liking. “Before I called the police. You were wearing a red dress. You yelled at me...made me promise never to speak of it again.”

_“I saw a woman,” Malcolm insisted earnestly, and Jessica grabbed him by the wrist, restraining him from going back downstairs. He whimpered. “You’re hurting me.”_

 _“_ Never _speak of her again,” Jessica warned him, and that was enough for both of them to know what was going on. Both of their fears had come true with this silent confirmation, but only one of those fears was real._

He was telling her. This whole time, Malcolm had warned her about a _woman_ , a _victim_ , and Jessica was too self-absorbed to think of it as anything other than an affair. The familiar guilt seeped through her like a bucket of icy water, and Jessica shivered.

“Your father’s in your head,” she growled.

“So are you,” Malcolm shot back.

Whatever guilt or sympathy Jessica had dissipated. Why should she feel _guilty?_ She did nothing wrong. And Malcolm was adamant; there was no changing his mind. No matter what, he would never be convinced, never be dissuaded, that Jessica was not somehow involved. He was stubborn.

_Sort of like you_ , Jessica’s mind supposed, but she quickly dismissed the thought.

Fine. So be it. Malcolm may have a welt on his cheek, but it was better than a mouthful of pills.

“Isn’t it funny to you?” Jessica derided, taking a step closer. “Your father is a _serial killer,_ yet, after all these years, _I’m_ still the monster.”

Malcolm lifted his chin defiantly. Jessica stared back with just as much venom, face sour with contempt, and snatched her purse off the table.

“I don’t care,” she glowered. “I don’t need you to _love_ me, Malcolm. I just need you _alive_.”

She slammed the door in his face for the second time, but now she didn’t care what he did an hour later.

* * *

She finally hugged him, once, after Watkins. He was practically limp in her arms, breathing heavily, chin on her shoulder. Jessica felt so grateful and so relieved, but then she pulled back and saw nothing but a dead, empty stare where Malcolm's soulful, intelligent gaze used to be, so the hug was quickly forgotten because now all that was left was a broken shell of her son and a coldness that seeped into Jessica's chest and pierced her heart like ice picks. 

* * *

Thank heavens. Thank Ainsley. Thank everything, because Jessica was finally-- _finally!_ \--going to socialize with people. Real people. Normal people. _Sane_ people. No need to worry about serial killers, business budgets, and most of all-- _hallelujah!_ \--no Martin Whitly.

Or so she thought.

“ _No_ , he didn’t have intercourse with the bodies,” she found herself snapping at her curious tablemates. “ _Yes_ , the entire time I didn’t know he was a serial killer--”

Ooh, canapes. This public wedding had its downsides, sure, but...

Eventually, the haranguing and interrogating ceased as the soft clinking of a spoon on a glass signaled a toast. Jessica sat back contentedly, prepared to wipe away heartfelt tears and laugh at stories she wasn’t there for.

“What is he doing?” someone murmured.

Ah, right. Mishaps happen with the passing of the microphone.

“Excuse me?” another person exclaimed.

Jessica waited it out and closed her eyes.

“Sorry! Just--okay. Hi, everyone!” a third person--wait.

She knew that voice.

Jessica kept her eyes closed and tried to smile through the internal screaming. Ever so slowly, she opened her eyes to see Malcolm hopping from foot to foot, twirling the microphone in one hand.

Of course. _Of course._ Her son couldn’t just go on vacation? Could this get any worse?

Apparently, it could.

Malcolm flashed a nervous smile at the audience and, with forced confidence, promptly blurted out: “Before George gives his toast, I’d just like to say a few words about dads.”

Jessica resisted the urge to facepalm.

“Because that’s a thing...that people do.” Malcolm clapped his hands, and everyone flinched at the feedback. “So! We, uh, all know that weddings are really for the parents, right?”

One of the women at the table leaned over to Jessica. “Do you know this strange man?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jessica lied, laughing nervously, “I mean, who could tell from way back here?”

“This is your dream come true,” Malcolm continued with a nod at George. “Um, George, you and, uh your wife gave Cal the best life possible. Private school. Tutors. Braces.”

“Cal never had braces!” someone shouted from afar, and Malcolm grinned through gritted teeth.

“Thanks!” he replied sarcastically. He resumed the speech. “George, this whole day is really a testament to you. Every father wants what's best for their son, right? When I was a kid, I knew my father would've done anything for me-- _anything_ \--but that doesn't mean that he was always right. You see, fathers do...bone it, from time to time.”

Despite the situation, Jessica couldn’t help but be embarrassed about the fact that her son had just used the phrase _bone it_.

“That perfect life they always wanted for you,” Malcolm continued, “maybe it was all wrong. That special girl that they didn't approve of, maybe she was the one. That accident they covered up…”

Everyone perked up, bloodhounds nosing to a scandal.

“...maybe it didn't have to be so tragic,” Malcolm finished. His eyes turned soft as a woman approached the table, face set with determination. “He’s not worth it, Isabella. None of them are. You can find peace without killing.”

Without killing? Jessica’s eyes darted nervously from Malcolm to Isabella.

Malcolm lowered the microphone, but the room was so silent and tense that he didn’t need it anymore. “Dumas said it best: _‘All of human wisdom can be summed up in these two words--wait and hope_.’”

“Thank you,” Isabella said quietly. Then she reached into her purse, and Malcolm’s eyes widened.

“ _GUN!_ ”

Jessica ducked under the table and Malcolm flung himself after George. The bullet dug into the ground, and the wedding room was in an uproar. Malcolm’s partner--(Danielle? Destiny? Jessica certainly would get her name later; she looked promising)--raced to the table and quickly flipped Isabella around, slapping on a pair of handcuffs.

Jessica hurried over to Malcolm, scanning his body anxiously, but another woman spoke up first.

“That was outstanding!” she exclaimed. “You’re--you’re a hero. What is your name?”

“Malcolm,” Malcolm murmured, and Jessica locked eyes with him. A slow smile spread across his face, paired with the same knowing glance that Jessica had despised until now. “I’m Jessica Whitly’s son.”

Jessica stepped forward, chin raised. “Yes, he is,” she agreed warmly. 

The woman stared at her, shocked, and Jessica allowed herself to bask in the smugness, unable to keep the smile off her face.

“ _Darling_ ,” she cooed, extending out her hand daintily, “I find myself to be underwhelmed by the social scene here. Shall we?”

Malcolm, with just as much dramatic flair, accepted her hand and pranced around the table to stand by her side.

Jessica leaned over to dust off his suit coat. “You really did spectacular there,” she admitted, “and...you did look happy.”

“When I’m on a case, I usually am,” Malcolm replied.

Touché. Jessica hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do next. But then…

_Just because he doesn’t_ ask _for a hug doesn’t mean he doesn’t_ want _one._

Did that still apply?

Yes. Yes it did.

Jessica hated her husband with everything she had, that much was obvious. But that night, she gave in to the pride and reminded herself that Martin actually did more for her than anyone ever could: he gave her Malcolm. Malcolm, her beautiful, intelligent, complex son. Malcolm, whom drove her insane (but then again, she drove him insane, too). Malcolm, whom she wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Jessica swiped a bottle of wine off the table and leaned over to pinch Malcolm’s cheek. “To each his own, my love,” she said affectionately.

Malcolm slowly brought a steady hand to his face, fingertips gingerly touching his cheek. He smiled, and Jessica smiled back.

It wasn’t a hug. But it was something, and that was good enough for the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing Jessica Whitly with all my life and soul.


End file.
